[this part at least he can't fuck up - too practiced from decades of want in liminal spaces, knowing exactly how to lave his tongue against bob's in a sweet twist to get him to make more of those divine noises. the urgency is removed without dimming any of the desire, and it's a novelty he still isn't used to no matter how many times he gets to experience it here. or maybe it's because of bob himself, earnest and somehow still so fucking good despite the shit he's been through both in his own world and the short pipeline of cult member to accused and back to the estate. someone that can still look at him a little breathless, starry-eyed and impressed instead of leveling him with a pitying stare or judgment like tim right now - yeah, that's pretty goddamn priceless too.
there's an amused hum against his mouth, a brief grin at the impression he's left and bob reminding him he's still got this. the charm, the words, the looks - none of that burned up in the smoke. it all came back even if he feels like he was pieced together wrong somehow - like one off-kilter look or unexpected observation is going to pull him back to that empty black hole of what happened those nights, or worse: tie it together with every other fucked up thing he's done to survive. kenny, lenny, eddie, tim - all a chain of his compartmentalized heartlessness. it makes him groan louder against bob, brows furrowing like he's physically trying to will away the thoughts as much as he is cupping at the point of his jaw one-handed and using it to start nudging him back into the room.
his other hand slides up the cozy material of his shirt, fingers skimming abs that may as well be made out of fucking marble.]
Holy hell. Get outta this and let me see this washboard of yours in the flesh, huh?
[not that he didn't appreciate the photos. but it can't compare to the real thing, and hawk nips at his lips briefly with another kiss, and another for good measure - unwilling to part even as he tugs him back through the warmth of the suite and towards his bedroom. it's as neatly tidied as hawk himself - bed made with military corners, nightstand hosting a few books on american history, influence - the kind of things for people who still believe in bootstraps and mind over matter. his closet is neat rows of suits and sweaters and oxfords, but other than that? it looks a bit like a bachelor pad without the lived-in softness of tim to ease his moody edges.
his thumbs skim the guttered line of his hips with a low whistle, another wolfish flash of teeth. he tips his head back, jaw lifted and eyes giving an appreciative once over with an amused arrogance absent the coldness to make it hard. like he's picked up on something and wants to crack it wide open.]
You like being told what to do, Bobby? Being a good boy? You could be mine.
[ fuel for hawk’s later assessment: as soon as he’s asked, bob starts tugging his shirt up, lifting it overhead with one hand and tossing it aside (some strange delight in messing up the room, like etching your name on a desk: bob was here). a stuttered breath at hawk’s appreciation, then, still unused to looking like he does (filled out where the morphine and methamphetimine both ran him down to fucking nothing, muscle and bone and heart under siege). no evidence left of that time now, every needleprick and scar from before and during the trial healed over, smoothed out, marbled. every part of him corded with muscle, and yet he goes easily, willingly, delighted to be guided backwards, a preternatural balance keeping him in line.
(the tidiness of the room registers chiefly because of its familiarity, barnes and walker both in those tucked-in corners, but with an emptiness that neither of those spaces have. that bob’s own room does, when he doesn’t how to take up space.)
that drag along his adonis belt makes him shiver, the sensation oddly grounding. aware of hawk looking at him — really looking — precious seconds before he calls his shot. another soft, strained sound, at the back of his throat. bobby, good boy, mine rattling around in his skull for all to hear. ]
Depends.
[ breath caught, like he might say more. depends on a lot of things, like the person doling out the orders. the shape of the commands and where they lead. one hand splays against hawk’s throat, thumb working his nape as he visibly runs the numbers. is it that obvious? enough that someone need only take a look at him or his file to know him to down his marrow. the thought needles the other part of his psyche. eyes glimmering. a spark of gold, there and gone — it seems the math checks out. ]
Could be good for you. [ for you being the operative phrase. for the person who was good to him during the games and after. his heart never stops hammering, but his expression opens. ] Could be yours.
[ breath hitching over what he really wants — yours — after being alone for so long. belonging of a kind that actives every neuron in his nuclear system. an electric current running the length of his spine, charging the air between them. careful to tug hawk’s hair with appropriate force (not head-tearing, arm-rending strength) when he kisses him again, open-mouthed and wanting. ]
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there's an amused hum against his mouth, a brief grin at the impression he's left and bob reminding him he's still got this. the charm, the words, the looks - none of that burned up in the smoke. it all came back even if he feels like he was pieced together wrong somehow - like one off-kilter look or unexpected observation is going to pull him back to that empty black hole of what happened those nights, or worse: tie it together with every other fucked up thing he's done to survive. kenny, lenny, eddie, tim - all a chain of his compartmentalized heartlessness. it makes him groan louder against bob, brows furrowing like he's physically trying to will away the thoughts as much as he is cupping at the point of his jaw one-handed and using it to start nudging him back into the room.
his other hand slides up the cozy material of his shirt, fingers skimming abs that may as well be made out of fucking marble.]
Holy hell. Get outta this and let me see this washboard of yours in the flesh, huh?
[not that he didn't appreciate the photos. but it can't compare to the real thing, and hawk nips at his lips briefly with another kiss, and another for good measure - unwilling to part even as he tugs him back through the warmth of the suite and towards his bedroom. it's as neatly tidied as hawk himself - bed made with military corners, nightstand hosting a few books on american history, influence - the kind of things for people who still believe in bootstraps and mind over matter. his closet is neat rows of suits and sweaters and oxfords, but other than that? it looks a bit like a bachelor pad without the lived-in softness of tim to ease his moody edges.
his thumbs skim the guttered line of his hips with a low whistle, another wolfish flash of teeth. he tips his head back, jaw lifted and eyes giving an appreciative once over with an amused arrogance absent the coldness to make it hard. like he's picked up on something and wants to crack it wide open.]
You like being told what to do, Bobby? Being a good boy? You could be mine.
no subject
(the tidiness of the room registers chiefly because of its familiarity, barnes and walker both in those tucked-in corners, but with an emptiness that neither of those spaces have. that bob’s own room does, when he doesn’t how to take up space.)
that drag along his adonis belt makes him shiver, the sensation oddly grounding. aware of hawk looking at him — really looking — precious seconds before he calls his shot. another soft, strained sound, at the back of his throat. bobby, good boy, mine rattling around in his skull for all to hear. ]
Depends.
[ breath caught, like he might say more. depends on a lot of things, like the person doling out the orders. the shape of the commands and where they lead. one hand splays against hawk’s throat, thumb working his nape as he visibly runs the numbers. is it that obvious? enough that someone need only take a look at him or his file to know him to down his marrow. the thought needles the other part of his psyche. eyes glimmering. a spark of gold, there and gone — it seems the math checks out. ]
Could be good for you. [ for you being the operative phrase. for the person who was good to him during the games and after. his heart never stops hammering, but his expression opens. ] Could be yours.
[ breath hitching over what he really wants — yours — after being alone for so long. belonging of a kind that actives every neuron in his nuclear system. an electric current running the length of his spine, charging the air between them. careful to tug hawk’s hair with appropriate force (not head-tearing, arm-rending strength) when he kisses him again, open-mouthed and wanting. ]